


He Came in the Night

by FeministKItty



Category: Inception (2010), Taboo (TV 2017)
Genre: Abandonment, Angst, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Hurt, M/M, Returning Home, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 14:50:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9662108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeministKItty/pseuds/FeministKItty
Summary: The cloaked figure easily dodged his panicked attack, grabbing Arthur’s wrist and twisting until he shouted in pain. He sank to the floor with the man’s knee in his back, his own arm pinned behind himself.“I must say, Arthur, this was not the greeting I was expecting.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> A weird little Arthur/James Delaney crossover fic that no one asked for, but I provided anyway.
> 
> Be aware, there's a little bit of violence, but nothing too graphic.
> 
> Big thanks to its-veinsoffire-stuff, bokvshi, and alwaysalovestory for beta-ing this! (find them on tumblr)

Arthur woke to a creaking sound. 

He cracked an eye open, saw it was still dark and rolled over, ready to fall back to sleep. He was sure it was just the wind.

Then he heard it again. He opened his eyes, scanning the candle lit room, but saw nothing out of place.

It came again.

And again. 

Louder. Whatever it was, it was getting closer. 

Arthur scrabbled under his mattress to find the butchers knife he had hidden there years ago, not really thinking he’d ever need to use it. He could feel his chest begin to pound. 

The doorknob clicked and Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. He clambered to his knees on the mattress, quivering arm out stretched in front of him, the knife gripped tightly in his hand. The hinges creaked as the door opened slowly, and Arthur wanted to shout but couldn’t find his voice. 

A great silhouette stood in the doorway of the dimly lit room, and let out a laugh. 

“Who the fuck are you? What do you want?” Arthur’s voice shook.

The silhouette removed the hat from its head and dropped it to the ground. Now that Arthur could see the piercing eyes staring back at him, he was truly terrified. He would recognise those eyes anywhere, even after a decade.

He sprung from the bed; knife aimed at the ghost’s torso and hurtled towards the doorway. The cloaked figure easily dodged his panicked attack, grabbing Arthur’s wrist and twisting until he shouted in pain. He sank to the floor with the man’s knee in his back, his own arm pinned behind himself. 

“I must say, Arthur, this was not the greeting I was expecting.”

That voice. 

Arthur dreamed about that voice. Had nightmares about that voice. 

He felt himself go limp in the man’s hold and the knife was taken from his slackened grip. The sound of metal on wood as the knife was slid out of reach interrupts the sound of Arthur’s thundering heartbeat in his ears. Only then did the man lift his weight from Arthur’s back, seating himself on the floor against the foot of the bed alongside Arthur’s sprawl. Arthur scrambled away, his feet sliding from under him, and coming to an abrupt halt when his back hit the door that had slammed closed in the frenzy. 

“How…” Arthur was still breathing hard, unable to get his words out. He wasn’t sure what he would say if he could. “James…”

Arthur hadn’t said the name in years. It felt foreign on his tongue. There were times even the thought of James Delaney caused a lump to form in his throat and tears to well in his eyes. Other times, thinking of the betrayal James’ departure caused would make the anger boil red inside him. Arthur would often take himself away when those feelings surfaced. He would haul an axe far down into the woodlands and take his frustration out on wooden stumps to save snapping at the next person who tried to talk with him. Arthur’s home was always well stocked with firewood. 

“You’re dead,” Arthur spat, more venom in his voice than he was expecting. 

James didn’t flinch, “I am.”

Arthur wished he could kill him again. He could see the shimmer of a scar below James’ eye in the candlelight. He wondered who gave it to him, torn between wanting to hurt that person, and wishing he were the one who had caused it. 

Arthur had thought about this, years ago, when he still had hope that James would return to him. He thought about this moment, James’ homecoming, and how monumentally happy he would be. 

The reality was really very different.

“I mourned you,” Arthur heard the sadness in his voice this time.

“I know,” James’ voice was more hoarse than Arthur remembered. Weathered. “I heard you.”

“You’re full of shit.” Arthurs mind was running at a mile a minute. He stood, moving to light more candles. 

All those nights he spent sobbing. Months he could barely bring himself to eat, and his mother was so worried that she would sit with him at every meal, as though he were a child. All those times Arthur would stand by the Thames and wonder why he shouldn’t let himself drown, allow the dogs to eat the flesh from his bones, because how could Arthur’s world be worth living in, if James Delaney wasn’t in it? 

And for what?

“Not one fucking letter,” he was grateful he was facing away from James, as now he could feel his eyes begin to water. As he reached the last candle, his knife was by his feet. He heard James shift behind him as he bent to pick it up.

“How could you have done this to me?” The tears were running down his face now, but his voice was steady. He pointed the knife at James again, who stood before him. 

“You don’t want to do this, Arthur,” James walked toward him, his voice threatening. Arthur could see that the patchy stubble that once covered James’ face had filled out. 

He could remember so clearly how that stubble felt against his lips, his neck, his thighs. All those time when Arthur would follow him from a crowded room, after James had caught his gaze and given him a look so heated that the breath would be knocked right out of him. Arthur knew to follow a few feet behind as James led them to a quiet, out of sight spot, which James had undoubtedly decided earlier in the night would be where he’d make Arthur suck his cock. Arthur would follow, without question. Always. 

His eyes never leaving Arthur’s, James reached out his hand and gripped the blade of the knife, twisting it out of Arthur’s grasp. Blood dripped to the floor. 

Arthur tried to move from James’ reach, suddenly aware that he didn’t know this man. James used to say that they were the same person; that they had the same heart. But the boy that had left London had returned as a man shrouded in so much mystery, that everyone was convinced he was dead. Arthur had heard the tales told of James’ time in the army, and realised that this wasn’t his James anymore, and he should be very afraid.

James moved forward to close the gap Arthur had created, backing him up against the wall, their chests pressed together. Arthur was frozen, petrified, the familiar warmth of James against him doing little to calm his nerves. 

“No matter what you choose to believe about me, don’t you dare believe that I stopped loving you.” 

Arthur never once doubted that any of the rumours he had heard about James Delaney were anything but true.

“You left me,” Arthur was surprised that he could keep his composure while James’ nose was against his cheek, his breath hot on Arthurs skin in a way that brought a million memories flooding back. “You promised you would never leave me here.”

“I had to,” James said ardently into his skin, “you have no idea, Arthur.” James’ brought his wounded hand up to Arthur’s cheek, smearing blood over his skin.

“You had ten fucking years to tell me,” Arthur looked into the eyes he thought he would never see again. Bloody fingers tangled in Arthur’s hair. 

“I know you didn’t come back for me, I heard about your father,” Arthur softened, “I’m sorry, James.”

They stood in silence, just the sound of their breathing and the candles spitting, and for a moment Arthur let himself believe that nothing had changed. 

“I’m staying here until the funeral,” James stepped back. He began to move around the room, seemingly searching for something as he opened draws, inspected the contents with his uninjured hand, and closed them again, muttering to himself as he went. He lifted the mattress, dissatisfied by whatever he saw, and dropping it back into place.

“No, you’re not,” Arthur replied, still against the wall, watching. “What are you doing?”

Then, James grabbed the blood stained knife from where he had thrown it onto Arthur’s bed. Arthur was frozen for a second, but James just dropped to the floor, working the tip of the blade beneath a floorboard. Arthur furrowed his brow. The sight was almost familiar. James would get like this, fixated on a task. The outside world would become nothing but an annoyance. It wasn’t worth asking questions until whatever James had sought out to do was done. 

The wood came up with a crack. James reached into the pocket of his coat, pulling out a small black pouch and dropped it into the hole the floorboard left. He replaced the wood, stood back up and repeated, “I’m staying here until the funeral.”

He shed his coat, letting it drop to the floor, and walked out the room. Arthur soon heard the pipes begin to rattle and water pouring into the basin, and made a beeline for the floorboard. He tried to pry it up with his fingers, then with the blood-spattered knife when his fingers kept slipping, but couldn’t gain purchase on the wood, the board clacking back into place several times.

Arthur couldn’t think. His tears had mingled with the sticky, congealing blood from James’ hand smeared across his cheekbone, trickling translucent red down his face. He hadn’t realised he was still crying. On his knees, Arthur attempted to calm his breathing. He didn’t know how to feel.

Arthur remembered the church they would sometimes hide away in, how their laughs would bounce off the marble from their concealed spot behind the pulpit. When they’d hear wooden doors open they’d silence each other with their tongues until they were sure the coast was clear. Laughter would bubble in Arthur’s throat; the thrill of being caught making it hard to stay quiet. James would sometimes have to clamp a hand over Arthur’s mouth to stop him from being heard. They were just boys. 

It was only once James had left that Arthur realised how many places would cause his heart to ache. It made Arthur grow up very quickly.

James re-entered the room. He wasn’t surprised to see Arthur attempting – and failing – to get under the floorboard. He kicked the knife out of Arthur’s hand and stood on the wooden inlay as he begun to undo the buttons of his shirt.

Arthur stared up from the floor, as the shirt fell away from James’ body it revealed the places where black ink now adorned his body. 

“You’re coming with me when I leave.”

“I’m not,” Arthur replied, but James knew as well as he did that it was a lie. James crouched next to him and reached his hand out, fingers grazing Arthur’s cheekbone, moving upwards to card through his hair. Arthur was about to lean into to touch when James’ hand gripped the strands and forced Arthurs head against his own. 

James rolled his forehead against Arthurs. Arthur hissed in pain, fingers still tightly wound in his hair, as James pressed fierce kisses onto Arthurs skin. 

“You’re coming with me whether you want to or not.”


End file.
